In the Flock of Crows
by SpicyWalrus
Summary: Your name is JOHN EGBERT, and your best bro just came to live with you. You have no idea why he's so AGILE, but you have a bad feeling that he ISN'T NORMAL. Little do you know that he comes froma LONG LINE of ASSASSINS and MURDERERS. What will you do now? Become Run Aways. Though, after this gets to you, you might see that this is a lot harder on you. Mentally and physically.
1. Defence, Offence

_If thy right eye offend thee, _

_Pluck it out!_

_**-Matthew 5:29**_

* * *

Your name is David (preferably Dave) Strider and everything has fallen right before you at your very feet. You have a sneaking hunch that your brother, your only guardian, the only other Strider; is dead. You've been dreaming of nothing—but you shouldn't be surprised by that, since you're staying in a cheap motel that is brim-over with cockroaches just as much as it is with lowlifes and hookers. Oh, and not to mention that you have all of four hundred dollars for the rest of your life.

But even when your laptop tells you right then and there that you have booked a flight to Seattle, Washington, you feel your eyes start to water as memories of Texas start to flood your brain and the back of your eyes.

They aren't tears of sorrow.

The memories aren't happy.

You're relieved, that's all.

That's the only thing.

When the ticket prints out, you tell yourself;

_I'm never coming back here._

* * *

Now, _your _name is John Egbert. You live in Bellevue, Washington. Not only are you getting a new house member tomorrow, but you can barely _sleep_ over it, and your endorphins are finally slowing to almost nothing as you watch the rain from your bedroom window, _ plit, plitplit, plit_, on the trees and streets below.

You and your dog are the only two here, actually. Some people like to say you're lonely, but you're really just fine here with her! She's the love of your _life,_ even if she always slobbers all over your face with that huge border collie-great dane tongue of hers. She's an utmost cutie in your eyes. She's your best friend.

Your first best friend.

Life is kind, just _kind of_, really hard when you live alone. Your dad left your plentiful amounts of money on the unpaved road that you're leading on in life, and you have _no_ idea what to do with it but pay the rent and water bill. You don't bother with the electricity and gas, because you can fair fine without those two.

That was until the exception of your best, interwebber, friend was invited suddenly to stay with you for, well, who knows when? You kind of really hope on until college, but, John, _think_; you both are only practically in high school! Fate can only determine that, can't it?

All of your thoughts are thrown out of your head in a flash when you hear a loud bark in your left ear. Thank God it wasn't your good ear. If at that, you'd go deaf for sure. Nope. Nobody wants that!

"Winona," You snap, voice high with apologetic annoyance as you try and fake a scowl at her. But damn, that face always kills you, makes you go to heaven, and burst with feelings unknown in your chest. Heaven without the dying part, at least.

Her tongue slides acrossed your face before with a kick of her hind legs, she bounds off; most likely to get a tug-o-war rope. That one's her favorite.

It never takes long for her to grow tired, and the first sign is when she paws sluggishly at the end you _are _holding_, _and she rests her head as well as she can on your unbent and standing leg. You laugh, or more so, giggle as always, and ruffle her spotted fur.

She really _is_ your only best friend, really.

A familiar buzzing fills your ears, and you furrow your brow. Who could be calling you at this hour?

Then you realize; it's only, like, what, eight?

A laugh rings through your ears before you snort and realize you're laughing out loud, cursing yourself within the giggles you can't help but let out. Then you grab your phone.

It's Jade.

"Hullo?" You peep out into the phone and flop on your bed with a small, totally un-cool, "oof".

"John!" The dog lover hisses into the phone, anticipation flooding her dainty voice. "You will _never_ guess what just happened!"

Your interest immediately peaks. You love gossip for some odd reason. Though nobody knows this, of course. "Nope, I'll never guess," you draw out derisively.

An audible snort comes off at the other end of the line, and you try and hold back another giggle. She sighs, "You know that one guy that I've been talking about fore~ver?"

"Um," you faulter, biting your cheek as you finally answer. Like always, it comes out sounding unsure as hell. "I do..?"

"Yeah! You do, you know, the one that's always talking with a weird lisp? He, um…"

She's obviously trying to admit something, you can _tell_. How can you tell? When you've known this girl for as long as you can (or can't, actually,) remember, you would be able to tell. But then again, this time you hear… Snickering?

"He got slushied by that gothic bookworm chick." Then the laughing came, and your kidneys almost combust.

"Oh my _god, _you're shitting me!" You yell into the phone, blue eyes bright with a feeling of victory. "What a useless douche!"

She's cackling manically on the other end, and you take a moment to admire just that. After you realize you admire her in general, of course. "I know! I'm so happy about it; I mean… He so deserves it!"

"I wouldn't say _so_ deserves it," you deadpan, giggling coming to a near stop. "Bullshit, he totally deserves it," you finally decide to say, smile growing on your face.

You've always liked how Jade talks to you whenever she feels like it. Which is actually quite often, you note. She's like a sister to you, but not _too_ sisterly. You see, you like her more than that.

Not so much in a sexual way, but more in a cutesy crushy way. Yeah, whatever that means, you think. Then again, you _are_ still a virgin… So it's more like a sensual way. You know, cuddling, nuzzling. But she doesn't—no, _never_ – will like you. You're a derp, un-cool, a smartass, and have no popularity what-so-ever.

So, you push that thought aside and actually start listening to the voice that is now asking if you're still there. Damnit, John, you're spacing out again!

"Sorry, I spaced out and… Oh my god," You start, eyes widening at the alarm clock over to your right. It was already two hours since you got on the phone with Jade. How uncouth of you to keep her from her fucking beauty sleep.

You push another thought of sleep aside and other thoughts creep back into mind, like your supposedly cool-as-hell friend. She lets you go and hangs up on a light note, and you barely even notice that she even ended the damn call.

A sigh leaves your lips and you set your phone on the nightstand that had been through so, so many rough nights. So many night of wishing that maybe, just _maybe_, your dad survived that car crash.

You don't like thinking about the car crash.

It makes your stomach hurt and your hands ball into fists.

So you roll onto your side and bury your face in the pillow after flicking off your glasses, hoping that the tears won't stain your pillow this time.

_But just think, you won't be alone for long,_ you try and think, unable to get all of the visions out of your head.

Maybe you just need some sleep..?

Or maybe a sleeping pill.

No.

You will never, _ever_, you swear; to never use the sleeping pills again, no matter how taunting it is to you every day.

And you promised yourself, too. John Egbert always keeps his promises.

* * *

The bags under your eyes aren't too noticeable, and you smile smugly at the fact that you look half decent. God, but you d hate your hair. You need a haircut. Then, you frown at that thought, knowing that those prison-boy days were long gone. You blow a strand of blonde hair out of your shaded eyes, sighing relief when the pilot made the O.K for everyone to take their seatbelts off and get the fuck off of the airplane.

You don't bother to get your hopes up; you're in the back of the plane. Your stomach quivers with an odd nervousness that you probably haven't felt since your first fourth-grade dance. You laugh to yourself at this.

You get a few odd stares as you walk from the plane, being a long, tall, and stocky teenaged Texan. You're pale, but that's okay because you're an albino. Well, you like to call yourself an albino.

Your arms form with goose bumps and the back of your neck feels cold against the Washington air when you step off of the small plane and onto the asphalt next to a large helicopter launch pad.

You like it here already, the sun barely peeking from behind some pretty impressive-looking clouds. You feel kind of intimidated by them, actually, and they make you feel like you're in Sin City or some shit.

"Heh," you let slip from your lips and realize that you're right under the threshold of the automatic door in this giant place, the concrete floor resounding your steps all acrossed the long, wide hallway.

Your shoulder is suddenly shoved aside by someone, and you gasp when you turn around.

_Shit._

* * *

You're falling. Falling, and everything is in slow motion, and you're waiting for the humiliation to come and hit you in the face and you're scared and paranoid and god _damn_ you want to apologize right then and there to the person that made your body fall in such an unforgiving way down onto the concrete.

And you freeze in mid-air, your shoulder feeling like it's about to rip out. That is, until you are pulled to your feet from mid-fall and you're nearly face-to-face with a pair of shades.

"H-," you try to apologize, but you're quickly cut off by a heavily accented voice.

"John..?" the blonde boy asks, and it catches you _way_ too off guard. Not only is his voice extremely interesting, but it's almost… Comforting to you.

You're lips utter out a half-word that sounds a lot like "day", but it was barely even audible and oh _boy _you hope it's him! "Dave?" You breathe out, sounding almost aroused from the suddenness of your half-fall. What? It was frightening!

* * *

"John!" You draw out, and you're face lightens up with the grin that you can't hold back.

Then you're arms are around each other and you're burying your faces into each other's shoulders and you're laughing and you both just can't _help it!_

His smile is so genuine when you pull back to look at the face you've longed to see for an entire year. "You're taller than I thought y'all would be," you chuckle, clearing your throat at the same time he does; most likely in a way that says "I'm trying to clear away any of this awkwardness."

But you keep smiling because you're so surprised about how he looks and you are so caught off guard by those _eyes_. They're blue and they're bright, big, and even worthy of being _framed._

Literally.

"You have more of an accent than I thought you would," his Seattleite voice chimes, and he shoves his hands in his pockets and he's smiling and _damnit, _he's fucking kawaii in the most unironic way in the world. And that's saying a lot, you note.

You're walking next to him and realize the height just slight height difference between the two of you and your blonde hair is blowing into the side of your face from the slight wind on the walk out of the airport and onto the street. There's trees… Everywhere.

"It's beautiful up here," you hum to the boy beside you, looking at all the trees on the way to his house, but he stop and gasps, whistling loudly to a cab that passes on the nearby street.

It stopped almost instantly, and you again take note of the little happy gesture John gave himself as he grabbed your arm and trotted over to the cab, opening the door and yanking you in.

But it's not like it hurt or anything, he looked excited anyways.

"Clyde Hill, please!" John chimes and you can see the excitement in his eyes, the anxiety ridded with a euphoric feeling. You've grown good at reading faces, you begin to realize in the back of your mind.

"Are you okay with dogs?" You hear his voice ask you almost hesitantly.

Well _that's_ an easy answer. "Hell yeah, I love those things," you utter out with a small smirk, raising a brow that is barely visible above your aviators.

John's face lit up again and you're on the verge of losing it inside. He makes you feel bubbly, like fucking champagne in a bucket of ice that is made of the most cuddle-fucked water in the universe.

You have a feeling that you could be friends.

And _damn,_ you hope he feels that same way.

"Sorry if it's messy," you hum self-consciously about the house that looks practically spotless, other than the dog that obliterated the pillows on your couch. You look behind you to the blonde staring up at the ceiling, and snicker at his half-agape mouth. "What, do you like it or something?"

There went your smartassness.

Dave laughed, head tossing back even farther as he walked over to the staircase. His entire torso leaned to the side when he looked up the stairs, then all around at the ceiling again, then at the hardwood floors.

You notice that he looks like he's wondering how expensive this place was.

You hope on the inside that he doesn't ask how expensive it is.

"Oh, my," you start in the middle of the pregnant silence that fell between you two, "It's getting really late."

You watch again as he smiles back at you, and you realize just how hick-like he really is, his smile is wide and bright, his cheeks are barely freckled, and he has a swayback when he stands. You kind of like this about him.

"Awh, man, it is?" He pouts at you—no, _with_ you—as his lips turn down into a frown.

"We have school tomorrow," you try, and smile apologetically at him, walking to the staircase after handing him his bag. You don't bother to even try and ignore the apology that he eeps out when you hand him his duffel bag filled with God knows what kind of clothes—and you smile back at him. Probably skinny jeans and letterman's jackets; you're only assuming this because he looks like the epitome of coolness with his blonde hair and shades so prominent on his perfect face.

You'd dare say you're a little bit jealous.

The stairs ascended in a spiral-like way, and you can't really hear Dave's footsteps when he's behind you. Must be a ninja or something, you think to yourself, hearing a duffel bag flop down on the guest bed in your room. But once you turn around, he's not next to the bed; he's right next to the windowsill with Winona.

And she's licking him excessively on the face.

"Winona!" You snap in a higher voice than usual, and she stops and tilts her head at you, blinking her bright eyes at you. You hear a voice again.

"John," is what the voice says. You now know that Dave says your name in a lower tone than when he's normally talking, but probably only when he's saying your name—and _only_ your name. A small shiver runs up your spine.

You tell yourself that it's because the window is open.

"You okay over there?" Breaks you away from your thoughts that you'd actually rather not think, and you begin to sit on your bed.

"Of course," you optimistically muse, flopping back down on your bed. You can hear a small, sigh-like giggle from the blonde.

And the next thing you know, you see him lying on the bed. Your brow furrows at the soundlessness his steps had before he even got into that bed.

You wonder for a few moments how someone could be so quiet. But only a few, since you've caught yourself smiling to yourself again.

* * *

Your name is Dave strider, and you're lying in your friend's guest bed staring at the ceiling. You don't bother to shed any tears from the relief you have, but you have a horrid feeling that's creeping into your stomach.

You hear a flock of crows fly above the house, and you look at the clock beside you to check the time.

It's exactly 12:00 am.

Your eyes widen when you see one of the black birds of resemblance closer to death than any other animal on this earth. Your heart almost stops when it looks at you, and you shake your head, hoping and _hoping_ that this isn't a calling from your brother. But then again, you don't see any pieces of paper tied to its talons, nor do you see anything in its beak.

But it's eyes are big, black and beedy in the dim light of the moon that peaks out from the clouds. You shiver and let out a shaky breath, red eyes illuminated in the stark blackness of the room. You can clearly hear John's soft snoring, but it isn't helping.

You have a feeling that something very, very wrong is going to happen.

_Maybe it's just a coincidence_, you'd like to believe this as you think it clearly to yourself, watching as the bird mumbles a small caw and spreads out its large, black wings, hopping out the window with a loud keen into the newborn morning.

Your head falls against the pillow and you feel a need to dream of water. Water that can wash everything— _everything— _away from your shoulders. Dream of that only, all night, if you can even manage such a thing. _Most likely you can't, Dave, _you spit at yourself internally, making your body curl up into a ball on your new bed.

_Something soon._

* * *

**Would you care to find out what that something is~? Ooh, I love guessing games!**

**This is actually my first fic with John and Dave… Hm, I already know what's going to happen. Thank GOD for roleplaying. Pchooo~**


	2. Fear

**Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air,  
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare:  
On whom the ravening brood of fate,  
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait;  
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,  
And look not madly wild, like thee?**

**- William Collins; Ode to Fear**

* * *

You're being shaken. You're not sure if you're actually moving your arm, but you attempt to in a haphazard attempt to cover your head with the squishy pillow underneath your blonde mop of hair.

"We gotta go to school, Dave," you can hear clearly, a bit too loud for your taste.

A sigh fills your ears and you can hear footsteps receding; relief spreads through you and you heave your own tired sigh. And all this time you thought the walking offender was done.

Your face is out from underneath the pillow after you realized it cut off your air supply and you rub your eyes. Everything is silent once again, and you find peace in drifting back to sleep.

That was, until you feel wetness, cold and annoying against your face, shoulders and neck. Your body immediately shoots up, a gasp filling your lungs and the sheets falling from your chest and to your folded legs.

You look up, and it's bright. Your inhumane eyes take no liking to this lighting. But the eye candy of a priceless expression make the scarlet irises quite content and you scowl away the giggle you hold back because of it.

"What?" You spit at the blue-eyed boy in front of you.

There is no response, only a grin that you can see and it is well over-bit and _way_ too adorable for in the morning. You finally realize what that grin is about.

"_Whoa! _Dave," he squeaks in a groggy morning voice, and you gasp and hurry your hand to cover your eyes.

Thank God you left your shades on the nightstand. But, shit, they're snatched away by the blue-eyed demon that is too cute to be any demon—and you wonder why you, in your right of mind, just cursed to yourself that John is a demon.

"John," your voice allows, low and scratchy in the slightest of ways. "Give them back."

Egbert doesn't even look like he picked up any recognition of your demands. You curse audibly at this fact. "No way, you're _eyes!"_

"I _know,_ now give them back," you cut him off in a pleading tone, sounding one decibel too desperate to be called "cool."

You scan John's face carefully, lightly colored lashes fluttering mainly because you are almost failing to stand guard of your eyes' privacy. What? They're sensitive.

Seconds go by until you actually realize that he's interested in your eyes, and not freaked out. What were you thinking Dave, that he was about to feint? Jesus, he was _grinning _for fuck's sake!

"They're so," he starts, and you turn your head down and to the side to hide the crimson, nearly demonic irises that withhold a current obsession from John Egbert.

"Beautiful."

Your heart almost stops, and you can't help but shoot a, most literally, "What the fuck?" expression at the Seattleite. But your attack of the quite intimidating and confused face fails miserably as he keeps staring in awe.

He starts to talk again, and you look him straight in the eye.

The stare works, surprisingly, and John scoots away with a small frown from your place on the bed. "I'm only saying," he pouts, and you sigh, getting up from your half-naked place on the bed.

You feel his eyes bore into the back of your head when you walk over to the duffel bag you discarded last night.

You kind of like that feeling.

* * *

Your letterman's sweater slips on effortlessly over your arms as you let out a silent sigh. Your hand pats your back pocket once. The blonde strands of your hair fall slightly over your shades when you nod once, turning back towards John.

"Can't we just ditch today?" You ask with a hopeful smile. But, of course, that smile turns down into a frown in no time flat—all because you hear John scoff.

"Dave, I've already told you once how much school means to me," he whines softly. Your pale lips turned down into a frown.

You watch as his lips purse like the mother you never had might've done, and you nod, staring at the floorboards before you. "Dave," John's voice rings through your ears, and he picks up his small messenger bag and raises a brow.

You step over to him like an obedient puppy, staring at his back while you follow him out the door of his room, and descend the stairs. But you sit on the railing, and let yourself slide down instead; and you're quite entertained by the awe-filled expression John's face has after that little skit with the railing.

Winona whines at the blue-eyed boy you've taken such a liking to, and his pale and lanky freshman hand ruffles her ears while telling her that he'll be back in no time. You feel an odd feeling down in the pit of your stomach. It feels almost like a fear.

_Almost._

But you're almost excited for today, wondering what could possibly happen when touring the Bellevue High school. It _must_ be different from the high school you went to back in Killeen.

It must be…

* * *

Your black-sneakered feet hit the pavement outside of your door and you watch as Dave's lips part—he's looking at the slightly sun-lit sky. He smiles at you.

"John, it's beautiful here," Dave hums in awe to the sky and trees, turning a complete 360 to get a good look of everything around him on Clyde Hill.

_But,_ you begin to think to yourself when Dave trots to your left side; _Clyde Hill is only Clyde Hill. _

The conversation turns interesting as soon as you get at least half a mile from the school, and you notice how thick his voice is with that accent. Some words come out funny-sounding, like "sorry" and, when the topic was on Cheetos, he called them "cheese poufs."

You laughed at this, of course, finding that your liver almost combusted of laughter when he asked, "Y'all e'r seen a five-gallon caintainer' cheese poufs?"

But all the fun and conversing joy ended once you saw the group of rambunctious, obnoxious and crude-looking juniors off in the distance, and you made no note of them to Dave as he kept talking.

They're coming closer, too close now, and you _feel_ their eyes boring into the square, frameless spectacles on the bridge of your button nose and you want to run away into the forest and hope and hope and _hope_ that they never find you. After all they did; what they've done and what they're _doing_? You want to fall down and crumble in front of them, asking profusely for them to leave you alone.

Your heart stops beating for what you swear is the duration of five whole seconds, and you can feel the wind running through your black hair and you can feel the ground moving up towards you and your stomach turn. The laughing fills your ears and everything is just _water, _you think—and you realize that your clothes, your temporary phone, and _you_ have been pushed—no, _punched_—into a puddle of stagnant, murky water.

You don't see Dave's eyes behind his glasses, but you can surely feel the sting of salty tears threatening so violently your eyes. "Stand up, _faggot_," they spit at you, your lungs crushing on just the mere impact of those words. Words of hate and ignorant, indifferent threats and _names_ just mercilessly_ fill_ your ears and nothing is real, everything is nothing.

Oh, you only hope it could be that way.

"Aye," you hear the deep, stocky voice of the Texan pipe up, and you hear multiple snickers stop at once.

Relief leaks into you as fast as the words filling your ears do. And for a tiny moment, you have no doubt that those words are _for_ you, not at you or worthlessly from your slightly quivering lips. _Don't kick me, don't kick me, don't kick…_

"The fuck do you think you lowlifes are doin' picking on a kid like this?" You hear, and you try and get up, standing back to watch over the scene you are currently the co-star of. It was Dave. And he's in each of their faces with a snarl, brows furrowed behind the top of his black aviators. "If you pick on that kid, you pick on me. I'm gonna tell y'all you do _not" _– he punctuates that word with an almost humorous laugh—"want to mess with a kid like me."

You can hear more laughter, and you watch as the blonde is shoved backwards. His growl is almost inaudible, and you're afraid of it because you_ hear_ it, backing up a little into the brush just before the forest begins.

You watch as he pulls out a four inch, brandished and black, stiletto switchblade that he flips open with ease, and he lunges at all of them at once, marking each of their left cheeks with something akin to an X.

Dave grabs your arm and hisses in your ear, "_Run_", and you're pulled into the brush, everything is moving fast and you could dare say you are deeply confused.

Bu you run anyways, and you don't' fall behind Dave the slightest; especially when you hear rustling and yelling behind you. And a lot of it. You're running faster, you can feel the endorphins kick in, and you're both struggling to keep running even though your feet are still pounding against the ground at a horrible pace and with a bone breaking force.

A tan hand grabs you just below the elbow, and you're flying through the air; but you aren't scared because you can feel his hand on your arm even if everything is going white and your ears are ringing madly. And in the midst of wondering what the _hell_ is going on, his mouth is next to your ear and his hand if covering your mouth.

"Don't move or speak," you can barely hear. For a second you ask yourself why Dave had to be so quiet, so… Secretive. It bothers you, and you want it to stop.

You try and say something, but your protests are cut off by Dave's hissing hush. You guess he's telling you to shut up because you can see multiple figures bounding in your direction, few of them stopping to look around. The leader, a redhead, signals to the others most likely to search for them—and you can see with your own, two, blue eyes that they have knives as well.

_They want to…_

No.

They would never, _no._

Your heart starts racing and you understand just the _slightest_ of why you're in a tree, why Dave has his hand over your mouth, and _**why.**__**He. Has. A. Knife. As well.**_

"I had a premonition," Dave feathers off of his vocal chords and into your ear and even you can barely hear it at all. The things you _can_ head are the rustling of the conifers above and around you, and the voice in your ear. Suddenly you start to tremble, and you nod and try your best not to scream out of pure unsoundness.

The thought of both blood and your own blood sickens you, so why _wouldn't_ you be trembling at the thought of it being on someone else's blade?

* * *

He's trembling by now and you can feel, smell, _taste_ the fear radiating off of him. You're both deathly silent, and the birds above spook every one of the unclassily-dressed juniors as they rustle rambunctiously.

The redhead sighs loudly and looks behind himself, long thick arm pointing to the direction that they came from. He was telling them to leave, but… Why? Were they only _his_ intentions against John? What did John even do..?

Too loudly for the bully's comfort, he flinches before groaning in annoyance as ll three of your ear's fill with the sound of a raven's cry; a keen that omens only emit. _Only._

Your crimson eyes widen almost immediately at that one sound.

The crow is just a branch away from you, you realize after looking at it from the corner of your eyes, and the redhead looks straight at it looking straight at you.

For a moment, you pray to whatever God you don't yet believe in.

Your nimble fingers grab the knife from your back pocket where you hid it again, the blade unsheathing quickly as you catch the attention of the redhead. His facial expression is the last that you will ever see of him, you note, and you do what you have been told to.

If thy right eye offend thee;

Pluck. It. Out.

Your hand covers John's blue, glistening eyes as the blade plunges deep into Redhead's eye socket before he can even scream, the sound of metal slipping into meat like music to your sadistic, murderous ears and you hold John close, hold him so still that you can feel him breathing through you.

Redhead's body falls back lifelessly, blood seeping profusely (and most likely pooling in his head) through the deep, deep puncture in his eye.

Black wings spread mirthfully into the air with another loud keen, and the Mother Carey's chicken flies off, black wings disappearing without another wound into the woods. You frown, almost sorrowfully. "Dave..?" Your ears recognize, and John is holding your arm around his body, eyes glued to the invisible wall in front of him.

"You wanna know why I'm so," your soft voice stops, and you look down at the dead body underneath you two, "Fixer-like?"

No answer.

You smile slightly at the silence. You like it. "I'm going to tell you a story, John," you tell him, and he nods quickly.

"Why would I want to hear a story right now..?" he asks the naïve question. You can only smirk.

"There was once a boy named Dave," you start, tilting your head in a mere curious fashion. "He was left behind in a burning house three days ago, with four hundred dollars to his name. Now, Dave wasn't the kind to give up, John, because he has been through a lot of thick stuff; bad jujus… Davey grew up in Killeen Heights, Texas, and he knew what a horrible place that was, because he had to sell and deal drugs, one-up in gang fights— even sell his poor, little, thirteen-to-fourteen-year-old body to crooks, _men,_ for money. All so that he could survive,

"He's been beaten, stabbed in the kidney, slashes in the head, and killed many times before." You finish, lips pursed next to his ear.

"When I uncover your mouth, you are not going to scream. You are not going to run; because if you do, I am promising you that _you_ will be found, and will never see anybody for the next fifty years to life. You are going to stay in my sight, and you will promise me that you will not run away."

He is silent.

Silent until you jump down from the tree and take him with you, scooped up in your arms. He gets on his feet and covers his mouth. Sickness wells up in his eyes, and he lets out a silent scream through thosed particular eyes. John is still as ever; all but his shaking head.

"No, no no _no, _Dave, he's not…"

"Dead," you finish, watching as John stumbles back against the tree trunk, one hand covering his mouth and the other on the barky surface.

You crouch down next to the redhead's body, his lifeless head coming up with your knife when you pull it out, the mop of hair falling around the murky mud beneath him. Your crimson eyes scan over his entire body, being sure that you don't _touch_ his visage what so ever.

But your back pocket, you remember, and you nod to yourself while your hand holds the blade firmly like a pencil, or a tattoo gun. Over and over you stab, jab, and gouge your way into his eye, mutilating every morsel of tissue the membranes even have.

You make it look authentic, as if a bird had pecked his eyes out from pure madness. "In lucem ire," you whisper to him, hand hovering over his pale face before you take a moment to think.

You stand up once more, and you take in a breath, reaching back into your pocket to pull out a small, black down feather. You extend you arm, silence ridding the entire forest as you release the plume into the air and watch as it falls; down, down, down until it reaches the end of its graceful plummet to the earth again.

"Stay on the roots of the trees and the logs; things that won't register your footprints," you tell the blue-eyed angel at your side, who leans into your side with a small, heaved breath.

A sigh leaves your lips and you take his half-lidded gaze in, holding his face between two hands. "My premonitions are why I am _this._"

Your hand lifts in front of John's face, palm pale and scar-bearing and his eyes widen and he looks so _scared_ about everything.

"What is that," he weakly asks, eyes flicking from your face, to your palm with the double-umlaut X—and you let out the breath you have already swallowed.

"Cantet scriptor Foederis," you nearly whisper, finishing your sentence in English after you were given that _look_. "They call it the Crow's Covenant, it's my… Mark."

The confusion is very apparent in his face, and it makes you feel a small pang of guilt—but only for a brief moment; you bite your lip.

You aren't supposed to tell him this, and this was never meant to happen; but it did and you cannot stop that. Nor can you stop what if to happen, either. You whisper to him softly. "I am Dave Strider, an assassin, _killer,_ dropped down from more generations than one…"

"You see," you punctuate, eyes roaming to the sky for a brief moment. "This never meant to happen, but I want you to trust me, John."

"Yes," he whimpers, voice cracking. John swallows visibly and repeats himself. "Ye-ah, I'll trust you."

You smile, turning your head up to the sky, automatically coming up with a plan. "We pack our things when we get back to the house. We take a bus to a shipment train post, and hop that to Oregon; this will be all over the news within hours, maybe a day if we get lucky. We_ are_ in the middle of the forest, anyways," your low voice rushes out, eyes finally meeting blue irises that look innocent but brave; broken but mintly structured.

He may just be the perfect one.

"You need a haircut, I need a haircut; we'll change our appearances because I have a deep feeling those dickwads know what y'all and me look—"

"Winona, what about Winona?"

Your breathing stops and you bite your lip. _Isn't Winona his only family,_ you think, shaking your head with an even shakier sigh, "We'll see," and you lie easily. You have always been a good liar, you _are_ a Strider.

John nods and you step away from him, looking down at the mutilated body. "Get on my back, you look like you're about to pass the fuck out," you mumble, and John responds quickly as he climbs onto your back for a piggy-back-ride.

You flip the hood of your jacket over your blonde head and take a moment to think as you walk, feet heavy from the root-climbing you've been doing on the run into here in the first place.

John is mumbling something incoherent before his consciousness seems to disappear into thin air, and it sounds like "It's all gone," or even "Keep me home." But you can't understand it, and his dead weight is pressing against your fifteen-and-a-half-year-old back.

_Aren't you proud, brother? _You think with a snarl-like smirk, finding the sidewalk and hanging your head, being sure that nobody can get a good recognition of your face.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have done your time in a windowless box, whether you like d that or not; and you have no yesterdays, you know that your tomorrows aren't here yet and never will be if you don't let them come; and you have only the present to figure your shit out.

You're dead set to becoming one of Them like your brother left you to do. Nonetheless, you _do_ feel like you have no idea what you're becoming.

You like it this way.

* * *

**There you have it! Shit gets real in the next few chapters. Y'all just gotta encourage me to write more! Woo~ **

**I seriously love you all.**


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